


Winter

by AuroraExecution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Christmas, Enjolras Is Bad At Holidays, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Illnesses, Le Contrat Social, M/M, Rousseau, Stubborn Enjolras, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:54:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraExecution/pseuds/AuroraExecution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the winter holidays, and only Grantaire, Feuilly, and Bossuet are still in Paris with Enjolras.  Enjolras tries to maintain his revolutionary pursuits, but he's so very tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This story was actually written in July 2011, so it seemed appropriate for me to post it on another summer night, despite the fact that the entire story takes place in mid/late December.

It was the dead of winter, and a particularly harsh one at that. 

Meetings had been all but canceled, due to the number of Les Amis who were away from Paris for the holidays.  Courfeyrac was gone to see an uncle and aunt who lived shortly outside of the city, and the others were almost all scheduled to return to their parents’ households for at least one of the weeks the university was on break.  Even Combeferre had been called home. 

Enjolras had received a similar letter, but had replied in no uncertain terms that he would not be home this year.  He preferred to stay in Paris and work on his plans for his cause rather than return to his father’s house and be overwhelmed by royalist rhetoric. 

Feuilly and Bossuet were also still in Paris, not having anywhere else to go.  Bossuet was ostensibly watching Joly’s rooms for the holiday, which was in reality a well-calculated plot by Joly to give his friend a place to stay, and ideally avoid coming down with pneumonia.  Feuilly, as usual, was working. 

The Musain was quiet for days.  Enjolras spent his evenings there, working on plans and speeches and pamphlets, and even, after so much quietude, some essays for his classes.  Combeferre, he thought, would be proud.  Some afternoons Lesgles and Grantaire could be found at their cups in the corner, occasionally joined by an exhausted and reading Feuilly, and Enjolras was almost glad for the chatter. 

Even when Bossuet and Feuilly were not at the Musain, Grantaire would still be present, quietly sipping at his absinthe and occasionally glancing at Enjolras’s table.  Strangely, Grantaire was silent during these times, leaving Enjolras in peace to work. 

And work he did. The little back room had never been so devoid of discussion and laughter.  There was no Joly to worry over everyone’s health, or Prouvaire to read aloud archaic poetry, or Bahorel telling stories of past battles.  Gone were Courfeyrac’s melodrama and Combeferre gently mothering at everyone.  Bossuet was still around, but with only the four of them, no one seemed to be interested in joking about his bad luck, and Feuilly had never been particularly talkative anyway. 

Combeferre had been the last of the travelers to leave—the rest having all departed at the beginning of the holiday break—and even he had left a week before Christmas.  By the fourth day after Combeferre had returned home, Enjolras was feeling a bit exhausted.  Strange, really, since there were fewer Amis at the Musain, and the ones who remained were quieter than usual.  By general logic, Enjolras assumed he ought to be less exhausted, now that he was not trying to talk over seven other people on a regular basis, or think over the noise of dominoes, poetry, and loud discussions. 

Yet, here he was, feeling inconveniently as though he were about to fall asleep right on his notes, which would be quite unfortunate indeed, especially since Combeferre had told him several times to study for this class, and he had gotten through a reasonable amount of revision already.  If nothing else, Enjolras hated leaving things incomplete, and this sentiment applied even to his class-work.  He shook his head with extreme force, as if to shake away the sleepiness, and set pen to paper again. 

The sense of exhaustion grew worse over the next few days, but Enjolras staunchly refused to bow to it, and returned to the Musain each afternoon to work on his rhetoric and essays and speeches.  After all, if he let himself fall to a bit of fatigue, especially now that his friends were out of Paris, who would defend the people? 

By the twenty-fourth, Enjolras was almost considering returning to his apartments and collapsing into sleep.  In response, he took out his well-worn copy of the Contrat Social and began diligently reading the familiar words.   _L'homme est né libre, et partout il est dans les fers_ —man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.  Enjolras used the reminder of his purpose to steel himself against the onslaught of coldness and weariness, because what was his suffering against that of thousands of his countrymen?  Surely they were assaulted by both these things every day, and without the comfort of a thick coat and a warm apartment to return to as he had.  … _l'on n'est point forcé de charger un homme d'un plus grand fardeau qu'un homme ne peut porter_ , said Rousseau.  There is no need to lay on any man burdens too heavy for a man to bear…

The next thing he knew of was a pair of large hands lightly shaking him, and a voice calling his name softly.  But, oh, the drowsiness was pulling him back in, and how comforting it was to sleep. 

* * *

Grantaire knew it was uncharitable, but he was secretly a little glad that Enjolras had remained in Paris for the holidays.  Instead of spending the break drinking alone, Grantaire was granted the privilege of watching his Apollo from across the Musain each day, which was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. 

Some days he drank with Bossuet, and sometimes even Feuilly, but his eyes were always drawn to the golden creature in the other corner, head bent over reams of papers and stacks of books.  Grantaire’s mind conjured all sorts of classical allusions to apply to him—Eros, with his eternal youth and beauty, Icarus, with his aspirations to touch the sun that ultimately led to his death, Endymion, who was so beautiful in sleep that Selene asked Zeus to let him remain so forever or, alternatively, was so beautiful that Hypnos caused him to sleep with his eyes open…

The comparison jolted Grantaire out of his daydream.  It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and Grantaire, having had nothing better to do, had wandered about the fine establishments of Paris all morning before finding himself in the Musain again.  He had been quite surprised when, after sitting alone in the corner for a few hours, he saw Enjolras burst in around two o’clock with an armful of papers and books.  Of course Enjolras would forget that Christmas Eve was a day of merrymaking and festivities, and instead make his way to the Musain to write papers and read lessons.  Amused, Grantaire had watched his Apollo and thought up comparisons in his head, until he reached Endymion. 

The sudden jolt occurred because—well, the reason for his comparison of Enjolras to the somnolent Endymion was the simple fact that Enjolras had fallen asleep.  And surely, if Enydmion had looked anything like Enjolras did in sleep, his golden hair falling haphazardly over his face and his long eyelashes nearly brushing his rosy cheek, it was no wonder that the moon would want to preserve him as such or that the god of sleep would marvel at his beauty. 

But something was wrong; Enjolras sometimes fell asleep at the Musain, but always only in the dead of night, when Grantaire, sleeping off his drink, was often the only one left, although it was not uncommon for Combeferre to be waiting to send Enjolras home.  And yet here was one lovely young demigod, lying in an uncharacteristically graceless heap with his golden head pillowed by an obviously deeply-treasured copy of Rousseau’s Contrat Social. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire called, shaking him. Enjolras moved slightly but did not open his eyes.  “Enjolras,” Grantaire called again, taking his hand.  There was no response this time, but Grantaire had already seized upon a new detail—Enjolras’s hand was burning hot, as was his forehead when Grantaire placed his knuckles there. 

And here were Joly and Combeferre both gone for Christmas. 

Of course, Grantaire realized after a beat, Enjolras would only fall ill when Combeferre was not around to watch over him. 

Grantaire helped Enjolras out of the Musain like he would a drunkard.  The original plan had been to go to Enjolras’s flat, but Grantaire immediately changed directions the moment he stepped outside.  The wind was uncomfortably frigid and snow-filled, and Grantaire’s rooms, unlike Enjolras’s far superior ones, were only slightly down the road.  He thought it best not to risk Enjolras’s fever any longer than necessary in the bitter cold. 

As he laid Enjolras in the bed and covered him, he heard his Apollo mumbling: “ _La liberté, parce que toute dépendance particulière est autant de force ôtée au corps de l'Etat…corps de l’Etat…_ ”  Liberty, because all particular dependence means so much force taken from the body of the State…body of the State…

The noble brow furrowed, as though unable to quite find the rest of the sentence in his delirium. 

“ _L'égalité, parce que la liberté ne peut subsister sans elle_ ,” Grantaire finished gently.  Equality, because liberty cannot exist without it. 

Enjolras’s fevered face relaxed, and he fell into sleep. 

* * *

Bossuet had attempted to go to the Musain earlier in the day, except when he wandered out onto the street a carriage had forced him into a snow-bank.  At least he was not injured, Bossuet thought good-naturedly, but going anywhere was out of the question.  He did not own another coat, and in this weather he would be hard-pressed to walk to the Musain without one.  Consequently, he had chosen to dry out his coat in Joly’s apartment, where it was considerably warmer. 

Once the coat was useful again, Bossuet figured he would drop by the Musain and see if his friends were there.  If they were, and it was far more likely than he wanted it to be, he had half a mind to forcibly take them somewhere else.  Joly’s, most likely, as it was a decent set of rooms, and large enough to comfortably fit four. 

He was just in the middle of considering whether Enjolras would be the sort to forego the celebration of holidays, or if he would simply forget—Bossuet was leaning toward the latter—when a knock sounded at the door. 

What he found was an oddly distressed and not particularly drunk Grantaire, kneading his hands together anxiously.  “Grantaire?” said Bossuet, “Is anything the matter?” 

“Enjolras,” replied Grantaire hoarsely, “He’s got a fever.  I know nothing of medicine, and I thought perhaps you might have something of Joly’s?” 

“Should we fetch a doctor?” 

Grantaire shook his shaggy head.  “I tried.  The practices are all closed until after the holidays, the medical students have gone home, and I’m not the sort who is welcome at a doctor’s personal residence.” 

“I’m not either, nor is Feuilly,” Bossuet said, “The only one who might have any luck is Enjolras himself.” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“Where is he, then?” asked Bossuet, already reaching for his almost-dry coat. 

“I put him in my rooms.  It was closest.  Would you bring anything of Joly’s you think might be useful and watch him?”  Grantaire glanced at the clock on the mantle.  “I’ll try to catch Feuilly on his way from work.” 

“Of course.” 

In the blink of an eye, Grantaire had handed a key over to Bossuet and was gone. 

Avoiding any prospective carriages and snow-banks, Bossuet managed to make it to Grantaire’s flat in relatively good shape.  There were a few new splashes of mud on his coat, and he had almost lost his head-scarf to the wind, but he had arrived without harming himself or losing anything important. 

He had in his arms a sack filled with Joly’s medicines, which he placed on Grantaire’s table.  Bossuet, not knowing which of the little bottles would be useful, had simply taken several that looked like ones Joly had fed to him at some point.  In addition, he had also brought a useful-looking medical text, which he planned to thumb through while waiting for Grantaire.  In the meantime, however, he thought it would be good to check on Enjolras first, so he stepped as quietly as he could into the other room. 

Enjolras lay on the very plain bed, resplendent even in fevered sleep, and Bossuet suddenly understood Grantaire's comparisons of their leader with Apollo. Bossuet could all but see a golden corona surrounding the still body and lighting up the dim apartment with revolutionary fervor.  
  
And really, sometimes Bossuet found Grantaire almost completely logical, which was a slightly disturbing thought. 

* * *

Regardless of the fact that he had spent the morning working, or the fact that his extra pair of pants was still drying from the wash so his legs were colder than usual, or even the fact that more than half his friends were out of town, Feuilly felt that today was a good day, because who could be unhappy on Christmas Eve? 

After all, things were looking rosy.  The mam’selle who ran the little bakery near his workplace had given him a pastry she had extra, the quicker to run out of stock and close up shop early.  The police officers were all safely home, celebrating their own holiday, so no one was about to ruin Feuilly’s mood with abuse of power.  And he had saved well over the course of the past month, so although he did not have enough money to afford presents for his friends, he could at least buy a round of drinks for them when he found them, undoubtedly still at the Musain, if it was even open. 

With this cheering thought in mind, Feuilly struck out for his apartment, admiring the lightly falling snow around him. 

When he reached his door, a figure was standing beside it.  “Dieu,” said Feuilly, recognizing the man as he drew closer, “Grantaire?” 

“It is I.” 

“How did you know my address?” 

“When you first came to the meetings, you gave your address with your name.” 

Well, Feuilly supposed he _had_ done that.  Grantaire had _remembered_? 

“Do you know anything about fever?” 

At Grantaire’s abrupt change of topic, Feuilly started slightly.  “Not exactly a lot.  Why?  Do you have a fever?” 

Grantaire looked surprised for the barest moment.  “Not me.  Enjolras.” 

This revelation threw Feuilly for a loop.  Enjolras, their imperturbable and indestructible leader, ill?  It was hard to even imagine, really. 

“I thought, with all the things you read, and Combeferre and Joly away.  Bossuet is bringing some of Joly’s things.  Will you come?” 

“Certainly,” said Feuilly, starting to regain his equilibrium.  “At least so that we may have three heads to help us through this.” 

And that was how Feuilly found himself following Grantaire in the direction of the Café Musain, then further two blocks and into a small set of furnished rooms.  Grantaire pushed open the unlocked door and entered, neglecting his outer room entirely in favor of passing to the bedchamber. 

Bossuet sat within, clutching a large text and flipping through it frantically.  Beside him, on the bed, slept Enjolras, his face flushed uncharacteristically from the fever of which Grantaire had spoken. 

“Found anything?” Grantaire asked.  Bossuet looked up and shook his head. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand half of this.” 

Feuilly felt he needed to intervene.  “What do the two of you _do_ when you’re ill?” 

“Sleep it off,” said Grantaire. 

“Joly,” said Bossuet in the same moment. 

Feuilly sighed.  “If you have some medicines I can take a look.” 

Bossuet and Grantaire led him back to the outer room, where there was a sack of various bottles and vials.  “I thought these looked useful,” Bossuet explained. 

After a few minutes, Feuilly separated out a bottle that he recalled taking for a fever years ago, and handed it to Grantaire, who had fetched a spoon from somewhere.  The three men returned to the inner room. 

An apprehensive glance was exchanged among them before Grantaire shrugged and laid a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder.  “Enjolras,” he called, shaking the man. 

“Yes?” their leader replied in a small voice, after several tries. 

Grantaire held out the spoonful of medicine, looking distinctly sheepish.  “Feuilly says this should help.”  Enjolras did not respond, and almost seemed to drift off again, so Grantaire pushed the spoon into his mouth and waited for Enjolras to swallow before taking it back out. 

The three men watched their leader as he fell back into slumber.  A moment passed, and Grantaire and Bossuet turned to look anxiously at Feuilly. 

“Will he—recover?” asked Grantaire, eyes wide and surprisingly sober. 

“Some people…die of fever, don’t they?” added Bossuet.  Joly was influencing the poor man, and now Grantaire was beginning to look distinctly panicky.  For once, Feuilly felt an amount of sympathy for Grantaire, who had held things together long enough to move Enjolras to the apartment and summon both Bossuet and Feuilly to help, but had exhausted his sangfroid by now. 

Feuilly tried to look confident.  “I’m no doctor, but I don’t think Enjolras would lose to an illness.  I suspect keeping him warm and rested is about all we can do for now.”  

“I’ve heard…” said Bossuet, seemingly more optimistic after Feuilly’s proclamation, “I’ve heard if the fever breaks he ought to survive.” 

For the rest of the evening, they all sat around or on the bed and conversed on topics unrelated to Enjolras’s illness.  In the evening, Bossuet managed to whip up a markedly simple but enjoyable supper, with the explanation of, “It’s Christmas Eve.” 

There was still some anxiety, however, and it remained throughout the night.  Bossuet and Feuilly stayed over, and they traded shifts with Grantaire to watch over Enjolras, though no one was quite able to sleep well.  By the shift directly before dawn, which was Bossuet’s, they were all awake and sitting around the bed again.  Feuilly had woken by habit an hour before dawn, and Grantaire had not slept well and thought he might be better off staying awake.

They waited. 

Shortly after the sun rose, piercing the frozen silent world with morning light, Enjolras’s fever broke. 

Feuilly could not help the thought that this was truly a wonderful start to a Christmas morning. 

* * *

When he woke, he felt vaguely like he had forgotten something important, almost as though he had neglected his cause for _days_. 

“…get yourself ill like this while I’m not here, will you.  Terribly inconvenient of you,” a soft voice was saying from beside him. 

“Combeferre?” Enjolras managed to cough out. 

“And who else would it be, I ask you.  It is altogether obvious you are incapable of taking care of your own health.” 

Enjolras opened his eyes blearily to a circle of worried faces leaning around him.  There was Joly, trying to angle his mirror so he could see Enjolras’s tongue, and Prouvaire looking intensely concerned.  Courfeyrac was obviously distressed, as he was focusing overly on Enjolras’s bedclothes needing to be replaced, while Bahorel grumbled beside him.  Combeferre, of course, was mothering him, and the other three could be seen slumbering in strange positions throughout the room. 

It was starting to come back to him.  The fever had broken on Christmas for a while, when he had shared something like a Christmas dinner with Feuilly, Bossuet, and Grantaire.  Apparently it had been cobbled together by Bossuet from Grantaire’s food, which had been purchased without the knowledge that it would be feeding four people.  Shortly afterward, though, the fever had come back, and he had acquired a cough and an aching throat. 

The abyss promised him rest and a definite lack of pain, so he succumbed once more to slumber.  For the rest of the week, he was instructed to sleep and occasionally forced to eat or take various medicines Feuilly had found.  The fever vanished further in the week, though he still had problems with his throat and the exhaustion, so the others had moved him back to his own apartment. 

Which led to him waking up one morning, feeling much better than before, with all his friends hovering about him.    

“I’m perfectly fine,” said Enjolras. 

Combeferre refused to see reason.  “Plenty of people have died from illnesses that started with fever.  You should recover further before returning to your regular routine.” 

“It’s been a week.  I feel much better.” 

“And I am a doctor, albeit in training, but it still means I am better equipped to judge whether you should be allowed out of bed.” 

“We can bring you quills and paper in the meantime,” suggested Courfeyrac. 

“Is he smiling at us?” asked Prouvaire, peering at him. 

“I believe he is!”  That was Joly. 

In the background, there came a heavy snore from Grantaire’s direction. 

The room burst into chatter. 

It was comfortable.  Enjolras felt at home like this.   Almost as though he were back in the Musain on any given night, only without his work in front of him.  Perhaps he _would_ take Courfeyrac’s offer of the pen and paper. 


End file.
